Damage
by Blue Zombie
Summary: Craig's 24 and is the abusive one in his romantic relationships.
1. Chapter 1

She cowered in the corner of the room and I felt it all, so still in that moment, everything frozen. The look on my face, a snarl, a mask of anger. And my fist was upraised, ready to crash down on her. My latest girlfriend. They hadn't been lasting long.

"Craig, stop it!" she cried, and I heard the terror in her voice. I just got so angry, all the little things piling up. All the little stressors. And it was what I saw, what I grew up with. This violence was the way to deal with it. It had been so long ago. 10 years since I had lived with my dad, 17 years since I had lived with both of my parents and saw this manner of relating, of dealing with stress. But it was internalized in me. It had to be. When the anger and the stress built up I saw no other way of dealing with it. Or, I didn't think about it. This just happened.

But the tears on her face, the look in her eyes, this brought me back to myself and I backed up, put my raised fist down, the angry mask melting away.

"I'm, I'm sorry, okay?" Now my voice was soft and I held my hand out to her, to help her up. She let me help her and the terror had turned to cautious puzzlement. She was shaking. I hadn't meant to scare her. I hoped I didn't hit her. I might have. Like I hit Joey that time, sometimes I did it without meaning to. And maybe this was how I was like my father, because I loved this girl. And I had loved the girlfriends before her and I had hit them. It made them leave. Some sooner than others but they all left. I hung my head. This girl would leave, too.

"Okay? I'm sorry. Please," I don't know exactly what I was asking for. Her forgiveness, maybe? Pleading with her to understand. Her face was a mask, too. Impassive now. She wouldn't let me in. She didn't trust me, and she was right not to. I was hurtful. I was violent. I couldn't control it. That was clear now. I don't know why I ever thought that I could.

"Okay," she said, and she rubbed her arms, hugged herself. She was so fragile. She was tall but not as tall as me and she was really skinny. I saw bruises on her and I must have put them there. Was this really what happened? Had I become my father?

Drinking wasn't the best solution but we both wanted to. It would make both of us feel better, so I got us some rum and coke. She wrapped up with the afghan and sat curled in the corner of the couch. It reminded me of how I acted after my dad would hit me. How hurt I felt, how kind of sick and numb and wrapped up in cotton. Now I was making someone else feel this way. I felt sick. Sick of myself, sick at the core of my being. I swallowed the rum and coke and just wanted to feel better.

"Michelle, I'm sorry," I said, and there was no expression in her face. She wasn't looking at me.

"It's okay, Craig," she said dully, and this reminded me of myself, too. When my dad would apologize up and down and I just didn't want to hear it, didn't believe it. But I'd tell him there were no hard feelings in that same dull voice. Beaten. But at least then I didn't have to feel guilty. Feeling guilty is worse. When I was the one being hit it was easier, because I could feel the righteous anger that felt good to feel. Now there was no one to be angry at but myself.

But I could still be angry at my father for this gift he gave me that keeps on giving. Being beaten as a child certainly has had its rewards. It caused me to be suicidal, it may have played a role in triggering the bipolar at such a young age, it fucked up all of my relationships. From Joey to Ashley and everyone in between, they were all fucked. And now I got to be the abusive one. I get to see the shoe on the other foot, I get to live inside his skin. Is this what it was like, dad? Is this how you felt? I'm just so glad I get to see.

Now I was afraid to touch her. Michelle. My beautiful girlfriend who I loved. I did. But I was afraid to touch her, she was so closed off from me. She was in a shell, protecting herself. And words couldn't make it better. I knew they couldn't. Not money, not gifts, nothing. It was damage that couldn't be undone, only lived with. I knew that.


	2. Chapter 2

My days were kind of filled. College classes, practicing with my new band, my shitty job. There were a few gigs here and there with the band but it didn't exactly pay the rent. Michelle went to school, too, and she worked a shitty job, too. She was a waitress.

And I was in control, always. I was light and carefree and joking with the band and at work. I was sort of quiet at school, thinking about how I didn't really like school all that much but maybe I needed it, needed some sort of backup. That sucked.

Me and Michelle lived in this apartment, kind of shitty but it was ours. We had to go to the laundry mat. Man, was that inconvenient. We didn't have a dishwasher. No modern conveniences. But it was cool to be on our own, to be over 18 and living like adults, somewhat. Not having to follow anyone's rules anymore. But the funny thing about that is there are rules, like going to work and school and doing the dishes and all of that shit. Just because it isn't Joey or any of the teachers at Degrassi telling me what to do doesn't mean there aren't rules.

Then, at night, I'd get so angry at Michelle. Just this out of control anger and we'd fight, and I wouldn't always hit her but a lot of times I would. It was like I couldn't stop myself, and she'd scream at me that I was a bastard and that she didn't know why she stayed. But I did.

She'd take off in the car we shared or lock herself in our bedroom and I'd be left with myself. The remorse bitter in my mouth like bile. I knew why she stayed. It was easier to stay. It was easy to think it wouldn't happen again. It was easy to blame herself.

My head down, feeling waves of guilt washing over me. I'd think about my father. There was another similarity between us. I was a violent asshole to exactly one person, just like he was. My dad had been the greatest surgeon, his patients loved him, the nurses and other doctors he worked with respected him. It was just me who had to put up with the brunt of his anger and stress and "losing his patience". Like Michelle. She put up with it from me. She was my target.

And sometimes, even though it was crazy, I wished he was alive. He understood this. Joey wasn't like this. He never hit us. He was really in control, even when he was pissed off. Maybe I should talk to Joey, ask him how he does it. But it's all complicated. I had this history of violence, of being violent and being the victim. Joey didn't have that, he didn't have that to overcome. I wasn't being very good at overcoming.

Michelle was changing. She wasn't talking to me that much even when we weren't fighting. She wasn't laughing anymore. She was dragging herself to school and work, this look in her eyes that was dull, blank, not good. I was hurting her, I knew that. But my anger was so hard to control. It wasn't fair to her, I knew that. But there seemed to be nothing I could do.

It was status quo time. We were both kind of ignoring it, thinking I could change. She probably thought she could change, that she wouldn't piss me off. But it wasn't just her, it was everything. It was stress, it was fear, it was my past, it was my methods of coping. Her behavior alone couldn't change me. But when someone you love is beating the shit out of you it's hard to take all that into account.

So I guess I'd let it go for now. And maybe I could change, who knew? It was willpower. No matter how mad I got I wouldn't lose control. I'd leave, I'd punch a pillow or something. I had to change and I could. I didn't need any outside help, any counselors or psychoanalysts. I would just be better.

I'd wake up in the morning and catch glimpses of the bruises on her delicate skin and I'd feel so lost. I'd be so angry at my father again. It was his fault. If he hadn't been like he was I wouldn't be this way, either. In my most formative years I was being so abused, so hurt all of the time. What chance did I have? I'd see the black and blues on her arms and legs and swallow hard. I loved her. What was I doing? What was wrong with me? I didn't have much of a chance at all.

I got up and made the coffee, thinking about Michelle and what she was willing to take. Despite love there was a limit to what people were willing to put up with. There had been with me and my dad. I wondered how close she was to her limit.


End file.
